Attrition
by kbk
Summary: Five snips, centred around Rodney. Future-fic. Post-apocalyptic i.e. almost everyone's dead, the rest fighting both Wraith and Goa'uld. Warnings: Swearing and talk of violence and death.


Notes: The italics in the first section are "quotes" - a couple are from actual episodes. Miko in the last section is the sweet Japanese woman from "Letters From Pegasus".

* * *

There's a succession of ghosts whispering in his ears, and every so often Rodney wants to talk back. He doesn't, of course, because if anyone were to think he were mad - genuinely bugfuck crazy, as opposed to the functional kind of crazy that half the damn army is, the kind where it seems normal to collapse into bed with a gun still strapped on, where a good day is one on which nobody dies, where it seems rational to have a doctor of astrophysics in charge of fighting off life-sucking aliens - well, if anyone were to think that, he'd be relieved of duty and strapped in restraints so fast that gate travel would look like a pleasant Sunday stroll.

Sometimes the voices will go away for a while, when he simply cannot afford to let himself hear them, but the thing about being a genius is that he can think about seventeen things at once - it's often the collision and conflation of several trains of thought that lead to his brilliant ideas - and so even when he's racking his brains with two minutes to go _Then give 'em two minutes._ he can hear them.

They're not real, of course, just the product of a battered conscience, memories being dragged to the surface, and that's why John's so persistent: it's not John, not his ghost hanging over Rodney's shoulder, it's just that John was there so much, the knowledge he had is so relevant, and the guilt over him is so much that is almost eclipses the rest, except that's really not an effective metaphor. _Hey, Rodney, I'm squishing your head!_ Daft bastard that he was.

John should be the one still here. He should be giving these orders, and he'd be giving better ones, because he'd know what the hell he was doing. And he'd make everyone feel important, and he'd get on with everyone, and he'd find a way to commit genocide while he was at it.

Maybe not that last, because John didn't make the weapons, only delivered them, but he'd certainly be better at the personnel thing, because one of the basic pillars of Rodney McKay is that he Does Not Get People. He doesn't know how to talk to them, how to get them to talk to him, how to deal with them. He certainly doesn't know how to make them like him.

He doesn't know how to keep them safe. _Stay down, Rodney._ He doesn't know how to stop them dying. _I'm ordering you, McKay!_ He doesn't know how to do anything other than watch.

It's easier when he doesn't know their faces.

Still, he hasn't been McKay in a long time. He's just Rodney, now, or more often, sir. He'd refer to himself as the Grand High Poohbah if he thought anyone was left who would get the joke. Or if he could remember the provenance himself. It would bother him if it was ever going to be relevant.

He has other things to remember. Things that make the difference between life and death for innumerable people _No undue pressure._ and things that remind him why he's still fighting. Things that don't really matter _Stop calling me that, I got promoted._ but keep him sane in the middle of the night.

As sane as he gets these days. Or maybe too sane. Enasni. _Such a geek, man.  
_  
But it's not the middle of the night any more, and Rodney has work to do, and if he works hard enough, well. Maybe today will be a good day.

* * *

"Carson, what can I do for you?" Rodney didn't look up from the papers spread out in front of him, but he sounded reasonably welcoming, and Carson lowered himself into the visitor's chair with a small sigh of relief. Rodney's eyes flicked up briefly at the sound.

"It's what I can do for you, actually. The latest set were in for the gene therapy. A couple of them were talking. They, uh..." Carson paused to compose his thought, and missed the irritated glance aimed at him. "They were hoping it would fail because, and I quote, "the gene-ys get the dangerous shit." I thought. Um."

Rodney was shuffling through his papers before Carson trailed off. "Thanks. I'll have to... Ground assault on the nearest base, I think, too many projected to be really worth it but if ungenes are higher status the kids'll try to avoid you. That all?"

"Rodney, you're... That's projected casualties, right? You're talking about making them into cannon fodder just to improve morale." Carson's jaw felt loose, and a combination of disbelief and horror was wending its nauseating way through his gut.

"They're already cannon fodder. All of them."

Carson knew it would be smarter to just keep his mouth shut and storm out, but by the time he had levered himself out of the chair he couldn't hold back any longer. "I can't believe you! You would never have talked like this before! You think John would have approved of this?"

Rodney raised his head at that. "Yes," he said, holding Carson's eyes, and the certainty there made Carson back away from that dangerous question, but he was outraged enough to keep protesting.

"You hated this! You always hated the idea of... I never understood why you worked for the fucking military when you're such a fucking coward!" That shut him up at last, guilt crowding into his throat.

Rodney just raised an eyebrow and went back to his papers. A few notations later, he drew breath again. "I always understood that war was sometimes necessary and once I got clearance I finally encountered wars I agreed with. As for my cowardice, well, I'm not one of them. I'm too important to be cannon fodder."

The worst part, thought Carson as he limped away, was that Rodney was right. That was why Jack had finally shouted him into grounding himself, because without Rodney, what was left of humanity had next to no chance against the Wraith. And all Carson could do for his only old friend was keep Rodney's top drawer stocked up with stimulants and painkillers, and slip the man the occasional sleeping pill. He might as well try that again soon, because Rodney would be avoiding him anyway...

Carson sighed, and turned back to look for the unlucky kid playing aide-de-camp this week.

* * *

To most of the recruits, the man in the office is a sort of a god. There's a little pile of offerings - coffee beans, mostly - outside his office to prove it.

He's been fighting the Wraith from the very beginning. The story goes that he was head scientist on the initial expedition, and it only seems incredible until you notice that alongside the piles of mission reports and personnel files and tactical suggestions there are specs for every piece of tech available on each side and reams of incomprehensible calculations with odd barely-comprehensible notes like, "but why doesn't w/h close?" or "only three inc. v - not enough, dammit!" There aren't many left from back then, and supposedly he's the only one who had to be ordered to stop fighting on the front lines; for someone with an obvious understanding of his own importance, he's remarkably unconcerned with his own survival.

He's a sarcastic bastard who only remembers the names of the leaders but knows how best to insult almost everyone in the complex. He has combat reflexes even though he works at least eighteen hours a day, every day. He never returns a salute because he doesn't seem to expect them in the first place, though he gets them from everyone but the chief doctor and a couple of the old scientists, the ones who remember him from back at the Waking.

They're probably among the few who know why he keeps his gun so close. The only time he doesn't have the holster strapped on is when he's in the shower, and then he wedges it on the shelf above the showerheads, where most people put their soap. The doctor once muttered something about a shepherd, but nobody dared to ask for clarification. To everyone else, it's just one of the things he does.

He carries his gun, and he always has a surplus of pens, and he won't look at you more than once in any given meeting unless you're spectacularly unlucky.

He, personally, writes the names of each of the fallen on the Wall. He, personally, sent them out to die with the words, "fuck off and get to it already."

Once in a while, out in the field, when the enemy is closing in and the ammo is running out, you might hear a whisper from along the line.

"Please, Rodney, get me the fuck out of this one."

* * *

Daniel nodded to the occasional familiar face as he made his way through the complex, smiling when they saluted, though he was busy worrying about the relief he'd seen in Carson's eyes when he arrived. "Maybe you can talk to him," the doctor had said, "because he's sure as hell not listening to me any more." He'd gone on to offer a check-up, a handful of assorted pills and a cream that would "work wonders for that scar," before he'd turned his attention to the group of young people waiting for him. Daniel had taken the chance to slip away, trusting to luck to guide him, and now it was almost comforting to hear Rodney's sarcastic voice drifting from an open door. 

"When we started taking out Hive Ships, we became dangerous. We've done that a lot lately, and now we're a threat and thus we are a target. And you know what happens to targets - at least, when someone competent is shooting. Were those small enough words for you?" Rodney paused long enough to watch the unfortunate young man turn nicely red. "As I was saying, you have your assignments, now fuck off."

Daniel slipped through the door and waited for the noise and confusion of the mass exodus to die down before he approached Rodney. He waited. And waited. Eventually he kicked the desk, and watched Rodney's head whip up as he reached automatically for the gun at his thigh. The movement was aborted a second later and Rodney grinned in welcome as he bent to pick his pen back up.

"I wasn't expecting you, Daniel. You come in with the latest batch for Carson?" The pen flicked and tapped, but Rodney's eyes only left Daniel to quickly sweep the room behind him.

Daniel smiled a little, and set his pile of folders on a hastily-cleared patch of the desk. It was a job his assistant should have done, but she was with the rest of the group waiting to get the gene, and he told Rodney as much. It wasn't a good excuse, because she would be waiting for the next day or so to find out if the gene therapy had worked, but he wasn't about to tell Rodney the real reason - that he had been concerned by the recent reports from this group, both what they said and what they didn't. Rodney probably knew, anyway.

"Did you hear much of what I was saying? We're scaling back for a bit, since Jack's lot - you got his last report, right? Menthu, Nepthys, all that lot, we can't have them win too comprehensively or they'll come after us next."

Daniel could feel his patient expression starting to strain, and it must have been visible, because Rodney started to look a little contrite.

"I've been talking to idiots, I'm not at your speed yet. So we should talk about reassigning a few of these, I think Callum could use them."

Daniel moved round the desk, and they started to go through the folders together. They had only been working for ten minutes when the same young man, no longer blushing, maneouvred through the door with a mug held carefully in his hands, only to splash coffee on himself when he noticed that Rodney wasn't alone.

"Sorry, sirs, I didn't realise... I can get another cup if you'd like, sir..." Daniel waved a dismissive hand at him, and the young man smiled gratefully before he set the mug down near the middle of the desk. "Uh, sir," he said, looking at Rodney and pausing only slightly when he realised he wasn't about to be looked at in return, "I'm going to join the new recruits for target practice, if that's all right, sir, and I'll keep up with my duties."

Rodney grunted in acknowledgement. Daniel kicked him.

"Fine," said Rodney, quirking a smile at the kid. "Get going." The young man practically skipped out of the room, and once he was out of earshot, Rodney paused in his work to take a sip of the coffee.

"You know, I don't yell at them just so they'll placate me with their rations, but it's a nice side effect." He handed the mug to Daniel, who inhaled blissfully, and they traded off sips until Daniel's assistant came to collect him. Her hands flashed a question and he shook his head, patting Rodney's shoulder to indicate her.

Rodney signed one more form and put it in the folder. "Yeah, we're done here," he said, handing over two folders and the last half-inch of coffee. "Give thingy back his mug on your way out, would you? And come have dinner with me and my senior staff later, if you want."

Daniel looked back as he closed the door. Rodney was already completely absorbed in another report.

* * *

It is very worrying, to have so much responsibility, but Miko does the best that she possibly can.

Everyone who is more qualified and is still alive has more urgent work to do than this project - except poor Doctor Zelenka, of course, but she must remember to call him just Radek. It is she, therefore, who must organise these scientists of every creed and find young people suitable for training and every other week she must take a report to Rodney, which never contains anything that is truly of use against the Wraith. He is always kind, though, and will even smile at her a little if there is nobody else waiting to talk to him. He reads her reports carefully, she knows, as from time to time he will walk down to the laboratory to share his suggestions. She always invites him to stay for a while. He always sighs and refuses.

This too worries Miko, because Doctor McKay belongs in the lab, but now he is Rodney and a soldier, still as brave and honourable as ever. Her husband used to tell her that she should not be worrying about another man, but then he saw how happy Doctor McKay was to be fixing the generator and he began to understand. In any case, Miko loves her family more than anything, and so her husband should not have been upset.

It is a shame for Rodney that he has no such person in his life, that it is only Doctor Carson who will make sure he is looked after, and that only for the good of all and the sake of the friendship they had. Miko has forgotten the doctor's last name, if it was a thing that she ever knew. She does not think it was.

It is difficult, sometimes, to remember that there was a time before. Before Wraith, before Atlantis, before Stargate. It is most difficult to remember before Wraith, though she was a grown woman at the Waking. Since that time she has done so much, for the mission and for herself, it is difficult to believe that it has been only a little more than ten years.

But that is all. Even the youngest recruits, in this galaxy, started life without the shadow of Wraith. Miko's daughter did not.

Rodney has promised that the children's children will no longer have to fight to survive. The Wraith will be beaten back, he says, and the children will grow in safety with their families.

The children grow in safety now, on a peaceful garden world with a peaceful old race. Soon Miko will go there again, to leave another child in someone else's arms, but for now, she works her very best to help Rodney keep his promise, and cradles the future beneath her heart.


End file.
